Break Time – Flash Fiction #11

It’s time for another Flash Fiction challenge! See the prompt below and try using it in your own 100 word story. Post your best entry in the comment section below.

He couldn’t remember what happened. Frantically, he patted himself down, and recognizing there were no visible marks or injuries – no scrapes or bruises – he released an audible sigh of relief. Then, suddenly in a panic, his mind raced: if the blood he was covered in wasn’t his own, then whose was it?

About Bishop Garrison

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He got to his feet. It was dawn and he was standing in a square. There wasn’t a soul to be seen, and he wondered if he’d seen the last of his own soul – was he in … that other place? The one with all the heat? It was certainly quite warm, but he soon shook that silly idea out of his head. No, they don’t have palm trees down there. So where? And … wait! He took a good look around for the first time. Red everywhere. The place was swimming in red. And what was that smell? Tomatoes?

His grandmother warned him, but he took no notice. Had he not seen his grandfather do it a hundred times before. How hard could it be to chop the head off a chicken?

The old hen clucked in his arms, unaware of what was about to happen. ‘There, there, soon be over I promise’. He placed her on the bench and picked up the cleaver. No going back. The boy surprised himself with his speed. He pulled the head forward and swung the cleaver down. The sickening crunch numbed him. There was blood everywhere, but no chicken.

He scanned his surroundings. He was in a cylindrical room, all concrete. The floor was about 50 feet in diameter. The one continuous wall was maybe 20 feet high with a small window near the top. The glass was grimy — the light that filtered through was gray and gloomy.

There was a small door.

It was a few feet high, a few feet wide. Wood with iron bracing.

Squeak! The window opened and another river of blood gushed down on him. It was thick and warm.

He had been patrolling the street. Now he remembered a ladder and the sound of screaming. He flinched with remorse as he recalled how he and his older brother would climb up to the roof of their farmhouse with a pail of stones and scream in amusement as they tormented the wandering chickens. Since then he had repented and became a cop, avoiding his criminal brother. Looking up, he saw a young man sitting at the top of a ladder. His heart sank as he recognized his brother screaming with crazy laughter as he waved a bucket of red paint.

“No, don’t lick it! Someone stop him.”
He sat on the floor, gazing at his bloodied hands. The beeps, sirens and bells sounded like agitated bugs behind glass. The blue tinge of the lights gave the blood on the tiles a strange sheen. It slicked like oil on a beach he’d seen.
He tried to lick his hands again but they were seized at the wrist by green and blue gloves. He stood and stared at the table, wet himself.
“ Doctor, doc. Snap out of it!”